


Should Have Listened

by WalkingDictionary (Scared_Beings_in_the_Dark)



Category: The Mechanic (2011)
Genre: And OMC, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death is for Burke, F/M, M/M, Rape/Non-con - Freeform, Torture, Trauma, rape story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-29
Updated: 2018-04-29
Packaged: 2019-04-29 18:33:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14478690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scared_Beings_in_the_Dark/pseuds/WalkingDictionary
Summary: Steve knows he should follow Bishop's instructions, but he wants to do what Bishop does. He never planned for this to happen.





	Should Have Listened

**Author's Note:**

> Read the tags. Read them again. That's your warning.

**Part I: Steve**

Almost as soon as Steve drinks the wine, he knows something is wrong. At first, he thinks it’s just because he’s already had so much to drink, but the more Burke presses him into the bed, he realizes Burke has drugged him.

He musters enough strength to push weakly at Burke, but Burke pins his arms above his head with one hand while he uses the other to open Steve’s jeans.

“No,” Steve mumbles, rocking from side to side. “Off. Get off me.”

Burke leans over him, a sneer plastered on his face. “I plan to, but first.” He lunges forward and latches his teeth onto Steve’s ear, hands settling on his hips.

Steve shoves against Burke’s chest again, but he doesn’t have any strength left. He fights back grunts of pain as Burke bites harder.

“Stop,” Steve says. Burke doesn’t listen, one hand reaching to yank both the jeans and boxers down his legs.

Burke huffs a small laugh, biting and licking the flesh he has exposed.

“Sick freak,” Steve spits at him. Burke laughs again and sucks on one of his fingers. Steve stops moving—it hasn’t helped so far.

He’d been joking with Bishop when he said that thing about rape, but now that it’s happening, he is more frightened than he’s ever been. He starts hyperventilating, air whistling in and out of his nose. The harder he breathes, the dizzier he gets until Burke slaps him.

As the black spots clear from his vision, he feels something thick and blunt poke his asshole.

“No,” he moans, jerking back. “Stop.”

The finger goes deeper, and then he feels another one slide in, too. He thinks it should hurt more than it does since he’s so small and Burke is so big, but he’s gone numb, his fingers and toes tingling with interrupted circulation. He makes a noise of discomfort, and Burke laughs his stupid laugh again. Steve vows to kill him once for every time he laughs.

Then, Burke lifts Steve’s legs, placing them on either side of his head, with his feet over his shoulders. If he could muster the strength, Steve would crush his head. As it is, he starts whistling air again.

“Ready?” Burke doesn’t wait for confirmation or denial before he enters Steve roughly, and that Steve feels. He cries out, arching his back, heels beating against Burke’s back. As Burke settles in him, he squirms, whimpering as the pain spikes and he begins cramping. He’s wet now, bleeding, he thinks, and he feels the tears from Burke’s thrusting. He sobs once, choking on air as he swallows the rest of them.

“Oh, the things you’ll feel,” Burke says, placing a hand over Steve’s mouth and nose. His rhythm stutters for a bit while he works out how to keep moving without the support of his other arm. “The pain you will feel.”

Steve struggles, but between the rohypnol and the suffocation, he doesn’t make a dent before Burke climaxes, thrusting deeper and faster into him while the hand on Steve’s face drifts down to squeeze his neck. Already seeing black dots again, Steve knows he’s going to die, and he is not ready.

A few seconds later, his eyes close and stay closed. The very last thing he hears before he slides into unconsciousness is Burke kissing him.

~ * ~

When Steve wakes up, there is a leather collar around his throat, his hands are restrained behind his back, and Burke, sans clothes, is standing over him. He can barely remember the night before, but he knows it’s bad from the way he still aches.

“Time to put that pretty mouth to work,” Burke says, hands grabbing at Steve’s ears and face. Steve fights, bucking against the collar, but Burke manages to set him on his knees. Using his large thumbs, Burke forces his mouth open.

“If you bite me, there will be consequences.”

Steve shakes his head, dislodging one of the fingers. “You can’t do this. Let me go.”

“Oh, I found the roofie in your pocket. You set me up. You had enough of the drug to kill me. So, yes, I can do this to you. Now, open your mouth and keep it open.”

He shoves his fingers back into Steve’s mouth, prying it open and pressing his penis in too. Steve chokes on it, gagging on the salt-tinged bitter flavor of flesh. Burke thrusts lazily, and the smile on his face grows.

“Oh, I’ve wanted to do this ever since I first saw you.” He slaps Steve’s cheek lightly and then uses a finger to tilt Steve’s head up. He thrusts a little harder, and the tip of his penis goes down Steve’s throat.

Steve gags.

“Shh-hh,” Burke croons. “You’ll get used to it.”

Steve shakes his head, fighting to spit out words and the penis. His frenzied movements seem to encourage Burke and his pace increases again. He ejaculates shortly afterward and pulls out.

Steve leans as far forward as he can and throws up on Burke’s feet. He ends up choking himself with the collar, but Burke’s look of displeasure is worth it to him.

“Bad boy,” is all Burke says before he disappears to the bathroom to collect a bucket of water and a rag.

When he returns, he cleans silently, every so often, glancing up at Steve.

“Was I rough?” he asks suddenly, and Steve nods. “Nonsense. You’ll get used to it.”

“Don’t count on it,” Steve says, shifting his body until he can sit against the wall with his legs stretched out in front of him. Burke continues to wipe the floor around his body. “I hate you. If I get half a chance, I’ll kill you. Especially if you keep raping me.”

“You won’t get half a chance.” Burke smirks, using his forefinger to trace the curve of Steve’s cheek. “You’ll learn to love me more than yourself, and then I’ll have you kill yourself.”

“I’ll make a mess,” Steve threatens, but even he can hear the waver in his voice. It’s not that Burke scares him—although he does, actually—it’s that Steve doesn’t know if he can live with the fact that he might become anything Burke predicts.

He hopes Bishop knows how to find him, but he’s not holding his breath.

“I’ve got work,” Burke says, and he leaves Steve’s line of sight.

“Hey, are you gonna untie me?” Steve asks when Burke comes back with a glass of orange juice.

“No.”

“Can I at least have a cigarette?”

“No.”

The glass is pressed to his lips and tipped up until he is forced to swallow or be covered in liquid.

“Are you going to feed me?” Steve asks as soon as Burke pulls the cup away.

“We’ll have dinner when I get back.”

“And when will that be?”

Burke slaps him lightly. “Shut up, Steve. You talk too much.”

Steve watches him silently. Burke stands up, and then crouches back down. He opens and closes his mouth while Steve stares at him.

“Was the dog a ruse? Another way you were targeting me?” Steve doesn’t answer, and Burke nods. “Thought so.”

He leaves after changing into a three-piece suit.

Steve manages to fall asleep pressed against the wall, naked and frightened.

~ * ~

He startles awake when Burke touches his face, jerking and grunting as his arms protest the movement.

“We have time for a quickie before I need to leave again.”

“Do you have time for a quickie death?” Steve huffs softly, biting his lip and ducking his head. Burke shakes his head. He tilts Steve’s face up and presses a chaste kiss to his forehead.

“I want to be in you.”

“You were in me,” Steve says, stomach sinking. He’s had all day to study the pain of his body, and he knows exactly what Burke did even if he can’t quite recall the actual event. He does not want to be raped again. “I’m a bad lay. You don’t want it again.”

“Hush.”

Burke reaches under him, fingers poking clumsily until the tip of his pointer slides into Steve. Steve tenses, wincing as another finger enters him. Gently, Burke rocks the digits, going deeper each time, and Steve starts shaking.

“Stop. I don’t want this. Why doesn’t what I want matter?”

Burke uses his unoccupied hand to cover Steve’s mouth as he adds another finger to Steve’s rectum. The sudden flare of pain distracts Steve from biting him.

Burke leaves him hanging in his shackles, used and dripping, as he heads off to work. Steve can’t find the energy to struggle. What does it matter anyway when Burke is just going to keep doing that to him?

It doesn’t matter. Not at all.

Steve should have listened to Bishop, should have followed his instructions. He’d been cock-sure, gone off half-cocked, and now he is cocked. Fucked up and down by a man more interested in getting off than in offing him.

Steve gathers enough saliva to spit.

Let Burke clean it up when he comes back.

~ * ~

The saliva dried long ago, so Steve entertains himself by rotating his wrists in their bonds. In the middle of sliding the cuff up over his thumb, the door opens. Steve tenses, waiting.

Of course, Burke knows this, so he takes his time, locking the door behind him, going to the kitchen to drink a glass of tap water. Steve licks his lips, his mouth too dry now to even think about spitting.

Eventually, Burke ambles his way into the living room. He offers Steve the half-empty glass, tilting it so that the liquid splashes over his face with much of it running down his chin and chest.

The little that Steve does manage to catch only makes him thirstier.

“You can have more when you wake up,” Burke promises. He steps away to get something off a nearby table and returns quickly, grabbing Steve’s arm. “This will help you.”

“What is that?” Steve eyes the needle in Burke’s hand.

“It’s a little something to take the edge off. I’m sure you can appreciate that.”

“Ow,” Steve complains when Burke stabs the needle into his arm.

“Shut up,” Burke advises. “Now, when you wake up, you’ll have a special treat.”

“You’ll be dead?”

“Shut up,” Burke says again, and his hand lightly taps Steve’s face. The last thing Steve is aware of is Burke stroking his face.

~ * ~

 Awareness slams into Steve all at once, and he jerks upright, as much as he can, from where he’s stretched across Burke’s bed. The weight of another body on him makes him panic more than the ache permanently etched into his bones.

“Shh,” Burke soothes, petting at Steve’s hair. “Come on, that’s it. Easy, cowboy. You’ll hurt more if you keep shaking like that.”

Steve manages a hearty “Fuck you!” before Burke presses in again and his vision goes gray. “No,” he moans as Burke uses him again, based on the wetness already there.

His body moves with it, but his mind skitters away, spinning around and around, looking for an escape.

He still hasn’t found one by the time Burke finishes, the kisses he places on Steve’s skin far more gentle and loving than the act he committed.

Steve rouses when Burke sets him in a tub of warm water, washing away sweat and semen.

“There you are,” he says, chucking at Steve’s chin. “I was afraid you might have broken too much just now.”

“You wish,” Steve hisses.

“Actually, the moment you stop being able to respond to me, that’s the moment I’m going to kill you.”

“So, kill you first? I thought you were going to make me kill myself. What happened to that plan?”

Burke chuckles humorlessly, directing the showerhead onto Steve’s face. “You think you’re funny? Just you wait. I’ve got a special surprise planned for you tomorrow.” He stands up to grab a towel. “Come on. If you can behave, you can sleep in the bed tonight.”

Steve pulls himself up, wiping the water from his face with a shaking hand. “What’s the catch?”

A smile twisted Burke’s lips. “No catch,” he says, “but I’m not going to be there, so you’ll be shackled to the bed.”

A night of rest? Yes, he’d be restrained, but Burke wouldn’t be there. Steve would be able to actually rest without worry.

“Deal,” he says, half-afraid that Burke will take it back and chain him to the wall again instead.

“Good choice. I’ll have a special treat for you when I come back.”

Steve bites his tongue to keep any remarks to himself. He’s not risking losing the bed to a smart jibe.

Burke insists on drying him off, spending extra care on his asshole, inspecting it.

“Not too bad. You probably need the rest.”

Again, Steve bites his tongue. He can’t endanger what is likely his best chance at an escape.

He lets Burke attach a metal cuff around his left wrist when he is centered on the bed.

Burke tucks him in, presses a kiss to his forehead, and turns off the bedside lamp. “I’ll be back in a couple of days. Try not to piss the bed while I’m gone.”

Steve dozes off while Burke gathers a suitcase.

~ * ~

 Burke is gone for just over forty-eight hours. Steve lost the battle with his bladder shortly after the sixteen-hour mark. After that, he doesn’t care. Burke shouldn’t have left him on the bed with no way to relieve himself.

He doesn’t feel any shame when Burke walks in on him trying to aim his narrow and unsatisfactory stream at one of the garish statues ringing the bed.

“Enough,” Burke barks. Steve runs out of urine before he can step up to the bed. Shame. Steve wanted to piss on him too. “I guess you want to go back to the shackles, huh? Gave you too much freedom.”

“You knew this would happen,” Steve says. “Why are you angry?”

“I thought you’d have more self-control.”

“You thought what?” Steve wishes he had more liquid in his body. “You’ve humiliated me, hurt me, degraded me, and you thought that I would have any self-control when you left me alone? You’re stupider than me.”

“No denying that you’re pretty stupid.” Burke sighs, settling onto the bed and reaching a cold hand out to stroke down Steve’s chest. He traces his breastbone, tapping his fingers against Steve’s ribs, hand dipping lower, skimming his stomach with the barest of touch. When his fingers, thick, calloused, grasp Steve’s penis, he jerks at the contact.

A cruel squeeze. A flippant twist. Steve screams before Burke is done.

Burke rapes him dry. Fucks him until he’s satisfied, slumped over Steve’s body, his abused genitals pressed uncomfortably against Burke’s lower stomach.

Steve doesn’t have enough moisture left to cry.

~ * ~

He wakes up when Burke drags him off the bed, throws him in the tub already half full of freezing water. Steve doesn’t care, he dunks his face and swallows as much water as he can before Burke pulls him out.

Steve kicks and fights as Burke drags him back to the wall with the cuffs.

“Stay here,” Burke snaps when Steve’s foot makes weak contact with his thigh. Steve shakes his manacled hands.

“Where exactly am I supposed to go?” he snaps. He doesn’t care anymore. He just wants to die. Why won’t Burke kill him?

Burke doesn’t answer when Steve screams at him.

Exhausted, Steve slumps against the wall, sobbing dryly. He has nothing left, reservoir empty. He barely has enough energy to lift his head when Burke kneels next to him. “Why am I still here?”

“Because you’re beautiful,” Burke finally says. He offers a slice of toast smeared with jam. Steve eats it only because he knows if he doesn’t, he won’t get food again for a while.

“You should have killed me before,” Steve says.

“I know.” Burke wipes away a smudge of a jam from the corner of Steve’s mouth. “I will probably kill you soon, but there’s someone who wants to meet you first. I’ll be back in a few hours.”

He presses a kiss to Steve’s lips, tongue swiping, probing until Steve just lets it in, too tired to keep fighting. He isn’t sure he can survive much longer.

If he doesn’t get out before Burke comes back, then he won’t get out at all. He might as well just let Burke kill him.

Burke leaves him there, pausing at the door to smile at him one more time. “I can’t wait,” he says.

The door slamming shut behind him feels like a coffin lid smashing over Steve’s head. He doesn’t wait for Burke’s vehicle to pull away before he starts working his hands in the cuffs, rotating them, jerking them up and down, trying to squeeze them through the bindings. He’ll get out of here if it kills him.

~ * ~

Hours later, Steve’s hands are bloody, his wrists lacerated from trying to squeeze them through the cuffs. This is a good thing, he thinks, lubrication helping him as he fights until one hand pops free. He grunts at the sharp stab of pain of his thumb dislocating that accompanies its freedom. Shortly, the other hand is free too, and the thumb dislocates with a pop of pain as well. He jams them against the floor, and while it doesn’t fully reset them, he is able to use them, albeit awkwardly, to reach behind his neck. He fingers the clasp attaching the collar to the wall. Agonizing minutes pass before he manages to unhook it. The collar itself is a solid piece of leather with no discernible opening, so he leaves it alone for now.

As he stands up, feet planted widely, back pressed to the wall, his first time in nearly three hours that he’s stood under his own power, the door to the house swings open. He should have known Burke would return before he could actually escape.

Immediately, Steve drops into a crouch, ignoring the screaming of his disused legs as they flex wildly to keep him balanced on his haunches. He wishes desperately that he still had his dark clothing. Hell, any clothes would be nice right about now. He’s tired of being naked, tired of having no defense.

Burke enters the house, followed closely by someone Steve knows he should know. His brain tingles, but survival wins out, and he scrambles into the bedroom, praying that the men’s conversation of sharing something, Burke’s idea, is enough to distract them from noticing him.

They head toward his little corner, and Steve realizes that _he_ is what Burke wants to share. That’s the surprise Burke mentioned earlier.

Alarmed, he rounds the bed, breathing heavily through his nose, knowing that he’s going to be raped yet again. He makes it to the closet safely, sliding through the cracked doors.

“Steve, someone to see you!” Burke calls out and then stops dead when he realizes Steve isn’t where he left him. “Steve!” Burke starts stomping around, making noise, so Steve steps farther into the closet, wrapping himself in an old sweater so large, it falls to his knees. He holds the gaping neck shut with one hand while he feels the back of the closet with the other. A man like Burke’s got to have plenty of escape routes in his house. He knows Bishop does—there’s one under the bed in Steve’s room.

He finally finds the latch near the floor, and it takes both hands to pull it. A panel slides back, revealing a tunnel behind the walls. Steve slips through, crouching down again and listening to Burke’s crazed searching. His companion is completely silent, and that worries Steve because it means he has no way of tracking the man.

As quietly as he can, Steve sneaks through the house, the tunnel depositing him near the still-open front door. He lunges forward, certain that Burke is right behind him, the way he can hear Burke’s shoes slapping the floor with enough force to crush bones.

Burke’s companion is outside, and he grabs Steve’s shoulder as he tries to run right past him. He turns him around and marches him back inside.

“Hey, Mark,” he calls, and Burke comes running. He looks at his friend squeezing Steve’s shoulder and then at Steve. Steve refuses to make eye contact.

“Steve,” Burke says, and there is some of the gentleness and charm he’d had when they were drinking, before this whole fucked up ordeal started. “Why are you trying to run away? This was your idea, remember?”

Steve shudders.

“Does he always shake this much?” the man laughs, and his fingers flex on Steve’s shoulder. Steve glares at nothing and waits.  “Come on, baby. I know Mark is a scary dude, but I know you love it.”

“You don’t know shit,” Steve says, pulling away. “Stay away from me, both of you.” He tries to leave again, but the man grabs him again.

“Mark promised me something special, and you are going to give it to me.”

Steve looks at Burke, who shrugs.

“Naked, right?” the man asks. Burke nods, and suddenly, the sweater is gone. Steve stands still. “Come sit on my lap.”

Steve looks the man up and down. He’s a little shorter than Burke, but still at least a head taller than him. “No,” he says, shaking his head. “You’re just going to rape me, and I don’t want that.” Steve doesn’t see Burke move, but he’s got a face full of angry mechanic and his cheek stings where Burke’s hand bounced off him.

“He’s a guest of this house, and you’ll treat him with the respect he deserves.”

“What about the respect I deserve?”

Burke slaps him again. “You’re my whore, and whores don’t deserve respect.” Steve spits on him, and then dodges the flurry of punches Burke aims at him. He retaliates with a strong kick to Burke’s knee. Before he can throw his own punch, a shock of pain strikes him, and convulsing, he falls to the floor. Less than fifteen seconds later, the pain has faded, but Steve can’t move his body.

“Taser,” the man says, leaning into Steve’s field of vision, a small black box in his hand. “Beautiful. Now, you are going to sit in my lap or I use this on your dick and balls, and I don’t think you’d like that.”

Steve shakes his head, surprised that he can move a little bit again. Just as surprising are the tears he finds in his eyes. He hadn’t thought he had enough moisture in his body. “Please don’t hurt me,” he whispers, and the man nods solemnly. He picks Steve up bridal-style, cradling him carefully.

“My name is Michael,” he says softly.

“Michael?” Steve repeats, and a long-forgotten memory triggers. He’s five years old and playing on a dark red carpet. His blocks are chipped, paint missing, toy cars lined up neatly, and he makes a puttering sound with his mouth while a dark haired man watches him from behind a messy desk covered in papers.

Michael was a partner in the firm Steve’s dad’s lawyer worked for. Steve used to play in Michael’s office when his dad had business on Saturday.

“Do you remember me?” he asks, afraid of the answer either way. Michael nods.

“You were such a beautiful child,” he says. “I wanted you then, but I knew I had to wait. Your father would have killed me.”

Michael sits at the table, and Steve shifts until his buttocks are planted firmly on Michael. Steve can’t help but notice that Michael’s breathing has increased.

“So beautiful,” Michael murmurs as he presses his mouth over Steve’s. While he’s kissing Steve, he lifts him so that his legs go over his arms and his hands are free. A few moments later, he lowers Steve, gently guiding his penis into Steve. He is careful, but there is still pain, and Steve still tucks his face into Michael’s neck to muffle any sounds he’s letting out.

He manages to relax enough that Michael, longer and thinner than Burke, bottoms out, his full length rippling over a certain spot inside of him that makes him jump.

“Ah, your prostrate.” Michael moves his hips in a circular motion, and Steve feels himself hardening. “That’s it, babe.”

“I don’t want to come,” Steve says, and damn it, the tears are back. “Please don’t make me come.” Burke hasn’t yet been that cruel to make Steve suffer that particular betrayal of his body.

“For me? Baby, please, for me.” Steve doesn’t have a choice because Michael starts jacking him off with the same gentle touch, and Steve tenses up right before he ejaculates. He sobs against Michael’s neck as Michael keeps jacking him. He only stops once he’s come too.

“Beautiful,” he says, kissing Steve’s mouth. “Absolutely beautiful.” He licks the tears from Steve’s cheeks and then kisses him again.

“You’re still in me,” Steve says.

“So I am!” Michael thrusts lazily for a few seconds. “I think I’ll stay in you for a little bit, babe.”

“No. Get out of me now.” Steve’s using his don’t-fuck-with-me tone, but he suspects Bishop is right and it only serves to make people hate him and want to hurt him more. He stands up, shuddering at the feel of Michael’s penis exiting him. Michael makes a noise of loss, and Steve growls low in his throat. “Tough shit.” He punches Michael right in the jaw, a hard crack that splits his knuckles. The man is unconscious before he falls out of the chair.

And Burke tackles Steve before he can take two steps. They fight hard, grappling and scratching at each other. Steve kicks and punches every part of Burke he can reach, and Burke wraps his hands around Steve’s throat, thumbs pressing in as he bangs the back of Steve’s head against the floor.

Spots explode in front of Steve’s eyes, and he claws at Burke’s hands, gasping on the little air he manages to gulp in between kicks. Then Burke settles over his hips, pinning his legs down. Just as Steve feels himself slipping over the edge, distantly, barely over the roaring in his ears, he hears the door burst open.

“Get off him,” a familiar voice says, “or I shoot you.”

Burke complies, climbing off Steve immediately.

“Should shoot them anyway,” Steve rasps out between coughs. Bishop grunts noncommittally and drops the damn sweater on him.

“Who are you?” Burke asks as Bishop pulls Steve to his feet and backs him toward the door. “Tell me, did you send him to kill me?”

“Yes,” Bishop says, and then he fires his gun. Burke recoils, hand pressed to an increasingly bloody hole in his shoulder. Steve jerks at the report, wincing at the pain it ignites in his body. “Drink the flunitrazepam,” Bishop instructs Burke. “It’ll be less painful than if I let Steve take the next shot.”

“What about Michael?” Steve asks.

“What about him? You want him dead too?”

“I-I don’t know,” Steve stutters. Bishop touches his shoulder, and Steve pulls away quickly. “Yes,” he murmurs quietly to Bishop’s inquiring look. “Yes, I want him dead.”

“Okay.” Two shots to the chest and Michael, never having awakened, is dead. Steve flinches with each shot.

Burke returns from his bedroom with the vial of roofie. He breaks it open with his thumb but pauses with it halfway raised to his lips.

“Drink,” Bishop says, handing his gun to Steve. Steve tries to ignore the way his hand keeps shaking when he reaches for it.

“Just like a leaf, cowboy,” Burke says before tipping the contents of the vial down his throat.

Bishop pushes Steve outside before he can see what happens.

“Should have done it at the bar,” he says quietly, and Steve nods.

Bishop holds out an arm, and Steve leans into him, tears rolling down his face again.

“He drugged me.”

“I know.” Bishop drags a hand up and down Steve’s arm. He makes a shushing sound and leads Steve to the passenger side of his truck. “Do you want a hospital?”

Steve shakes his head. The only things he’s worried about are STDs, and he can go to a free clinic for those. “I just want to get out of here.”

~ * ~

**Part II: Bishop**

Bishop takes Steve home so he can take a shower. Bishop grabs the medkit while he’s busy. After, he patches him up clinically. And Steve cannot stop shaking. He shudders in Bishop’s grip while he wraps his wrists and tapes his thumbs.

“Are you positive you don’t want to go t the hospital?” Bishop asks again when he’s done.

Steve shakes his head. “I still have some of the semen inside me. If they take a sample, they’ll be able to link it to Burke and Michael. I’ll be arrested for their murders. No, it’s best if I just stay low and heal on my own.”

Bishop nods in understanding. Steve’s getting smarter. He only wishes he would have followed the job precisely instead of trying to improvise. Now Bishop has to go clean up the mess with the lawyer he shot. He can’t take Steve with him; he’s a liability. But, he also doesn’t want to leave him alone.

Almost immediately, he thinks of Sarah. Steve is not a dog, so she might not be as charitable, but he can ask.

“I have somewhere I think you need to go,” he tells Steve. “Come on.”

~ * ~

Steve shivers the entire drive to Sarah’s, arms crossed over his chest, hat pulled over his eyes. He whimpers slightly whenever they go over a bump, and Bishop feels his heart starting to hurt. He can’t have this distraction while he’s taking care of cleaning up Steve’s mess.

The duffle bag at Steve’s feet has everything the kid needs to survive a week. Everything except Bishop himself. Steve kicks it gently when he notices Bishop staring at him.

“What?” he says sullenly and then points at the road ahead. Bishop takes his hint and keeps his attention focused on driving.

It’s a relief when they finally pull up Sarah’s apartment. Bishop wants to wash his hands of the kid, leave him behind in the dust before Steve’s actions get him killed or make him care more.

“You should have listened to me,” he says roughly.

Steve doesn’t answer.

~ * ~

**Part III Sarah**

Sarah opens the door on the third knock. She’s only wearing a thin, wrap around robe because she was expecting Bishop. She was not expecting the young man halfway hiding behind him. Sarah tightens her robe even though the man is looking at anything that isn’t her.

“This is Steve,” Bishop says, pushing the man into the living room.

“Steve” looks like he got in a fight and lost. He has scratches and bruises all over his face, defined thumbprints on his neck, and bandaged hands. Bishop points at the couch, and Steve settles himself carefully, grabbing an embroidered pillow to hug. “My protégé.” Bishop must be as shocked by the words as Steve is based on the way Steve’s attention snaps onto Bishop’s face as he just stands there processing it.

Sarah waits, arms crossed over her chest until Bishops snaps out of it.

“You’ll be fine,” he says, guiding her toward the bedroom. “He’s a little jumpy. We’ll know if he has any problems.”

“What’s wrong with him?”

“He was attacked. It’ll take him a while to get over it.”

“Am I where you dump all your rejects?” Sarah smiles, but Bishop can see it doesn’t reach her eyes. He pauses.

“Please, Sarah, you’re good with these things.”

Sarah’s face goes hard. “Do you mean being a sounding board, as a psychiatrist? Does he need mental help?”

Bishop sighs, running a hand over his face. “Probably wouldn’t be a bad idea. But, I thought you might be able to help him first. He’s been through something similar to you.”

Sarah turns back toward the living room. “Do you want me to start now…?”

Bishop shrugs. “I think it can wait. Right now, there’s something you and I need to do.” He opens the door, backing her into the room.

“Wait, are you seriously suggesting that we have sex right now?” She cuts a glance to where Steve is still sitting on the couch, the pillow in a death grip. “You can’t be serious!”

“What?” Bishop follows her gaze. “Yeah, he’s fine.” Louder, he says, “Get some sleep. Your demons are dead.”

Steve doesn’t respond, but he does lie down, the pillow over his face.

“See? All better.”

Sarah gives Bishop an unimpressed glare, but she still allows him to tug her to the bed, the door kicked shut behind them.

“Where’s Arthur?” he asks before he unties her robe.

“He’s at my sister’s,” she replies, spinning them around and pushing him down. She worries briefly about Steve out on her couch, and then decides it doesn’t matter. Bishop is here. Steve’s—what did Bishop call them? Demons?—are dead. He’s safe here too.

“She’ll bring him back tomorrow.”

“I’ll be gone before then.”

Sarah hums, leaning down to kiss him. She’s not surprised that Bishop is foisting another charge onto her. At least she gets this.

~ * ~

Sarah goes to check on Steve while Bishop sleeps off his orgasm.

She finds him curled onto the floor, hands pressed over his ears, whimpers and whines breaking through his clenched teeth.

She stops, grabbing a set of keys that she tosses to her left. Steve bolts upright, hands searching for something—a gun?—while he scans the room. When he sees her, he stands up, hands jammed in his pockets.

“Hey,” he says, voice cracked. “Sorry about that.”

“It’s okay,” she tells him. “I know your mind is a jumbled mess and nothing’s safe.”

“It should be though,” Steve says, scratching under his eye. “I mean, my…they’re dead. I don’t have to worry about them coming to attack me again.”

“You would think so, but the trauma has already been inflicted. You need to process it first, and that takes time. It could be months, it could be years. Don’t rush yourself. It’s not a race.”

Steve breathes deeply, hands over his face. His shoulders shake, and he chokes back his sobs.

She guides him to the couch and they sit together. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“This my fault. I deserve this.”

Sarah shakes her head, grabbing his wrists. “It is not your fault,” she says emphatically.

Steve lets her pull his hands down. “I was supposed to do something, but I didn’t and it resulted in this. How am I not to blame?”

“You may have been on a job that you didn’t do, but this was not the intended result, was it?” Sarah strokes her thumbs over his bandages, watching him carefully as he fights a flinch at her touch. “You didn’t hurt yourself. You didn’t get into that situation with the intention of what happened happening. You are not to blame.”

“But I am,” Steve insists. He rips his hands from hers and slams them back over his face. “I put myself in that position. I caused it.”

Sarah bites her lip, thinking. Steve has so much guilt, which isn’t unusual for a victim of physical or sexual abuse. Most people need a bit more time, but maybe Steve is receptive?

“Do you think therapy would help?” she asks. “A licensed professional would be required to keep things private. Doctor-Patient Confidentiality.”

Steve peeks at her from between his fingers. “I could say anything and they’d have to not tell anybody else?”

“Essentially yes,” Sarah says. “There may be some conditions, but unless there is a specific warrant for the information you divulge, whomever you meet with will not disclose the nature of your discussions.”

Steve thinks it over, his face swirling through a myriad of emotions until he settles on resignation. “It will help?” he asks uncertainly. Sarah shrugs. He nods resolutely. “I’ll do it.”

“Wonderful. I’ll help you find someone tomorrow.”

She stands up, glancing at her bedroom to find Bishop studying them with an unreadable expression. When he catches her eye, he nods, once, before marching to the front door.

“Take good care of each other,” he says, and then he’s gone.

Sarah knows she won’t ever see him again. All she has to show for it is a lost, traumatized kid sitting on her couch and Arthur. Sarah thinks she’s better off for it.

She knows Steve is too.

~ Fin ~

**Author's Note:**

> This story has been briefly edited by me to fix some mistakes. If anything remains or if you think I missed a tag, please let me know.
> 
> Thanks to anyone who reads this story.


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